Fiddler's Green
by Child of a Broken Dawn
Summary: Being a Daring Tale of one Young Man's Fearful Captivity as a Prisoner of Pirates most Bloodthirsty and the Strange Adventure which ensued Thence. (WxL pirate AU.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This was born of a steady diet of Alestorm and Pirates of the Caribbean. Enjoy. If you recognize a character's name or appearance from anything every created by Charles Addams- surprise! I don't own them.

* * *

The lad was, Captain Blackwell reflected, quite pleasant. Cultured, well-mannered, witty, and modest. Likely to attract the ladies as well, with expressive brown eyes, full lips, and the pale, soft skin of someone who'd never known hard labor. Yes, overall a fine young man.

And going absolutely nowhere in life.

On their first circuit of the deck, his conversation had entirely concerned classical myths- Greek and Roman. Now, halfway through the second, all he could speak of was poetry. As a particularly passionate gesture revealed a paisley silk vest beneath his velvet frock coat, the older man wondered if perhaps those ladies he'd attract were not to his liking.

"I beg your pardon," he said, interrupting a discourse on Shakespearean sonnets, "but what brings you to the islands, Master …?" For he could imagine no-one less likely to make this voyage.

As if reading his mind, the boy smiled wryly. "Beineke. I did introduce myself, but you must not have heard it."

"Beineke?" Blackwell's brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but that does not sound like an English name."

"It isn't. My father is German," he replied. For a moment, his eyes seemed to darken. With strands of hair the wind had coaxed loose from their ribbon blowing across his forehead, Master Beineke looked more human than Captain Blackwell had seen him during the entire three-month voyage.

"I will join him in Barbados, to learn the finer points of the family trade. He is a merchant," the boy added in answer to the captain's unspoken question.

"Ah." Blackwell stared out over the sun-sparkling water. There seemed little else to say. "Well," he finally managed, "you seem a fine lad, if you don't mind my saying. I am sure you will meet with every success in life."

"Thank you," Master Beineke said.

And all was silent as they stood near the railing, watching the waves. Not the flattest calm the _Mary Rose_ had ever seen, but tranquil enough. Certainly no-one on board would have cause to feel sick. The sailors on deck went about their business calmly and quietly; a few other passengers strolled as the two men were doing. In short, it was an entirely normal scene. Practically idyllic, in fact; begging to be painted and sold in a London gallery.

Until, that is, Lucas found himself knocked into from behind and nearly bowled over. Grabbing the railing unconsciously, he regained his footing and turned to get a look at his assailant. His eyes widened as he saw- a child. No older than ten, at that

Captain Blackwell looked sternly at the little girl. She was pretty, with a round face and brown curls that, because of her youth, were not yet restrained by pins. And a thoroughly unrepentant smile.

"See here," he began. But at that moment, a harried-looking maid caught up to the girl.

"Young mistress," she said, breathing hard, "I have had quite enough of this. You may _not_ race about the ship like a street urchin! I do apologize, sir-" the last direct at the young man.

To the captain's surprise, he smiled indulgently. "Not to worry, madam. No harm done."

The maid heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. Miss Maria is…strong minded. More," she continued, with a stern glance at her charge, "than befits a lady."

"I shan't be a lady if we're set upon by pirates," the child exclaimed. Her hands twisted the blue cotton of her skirt in excitement.

"Heaven preserve us, child," her maid practically wailed, "don't say such things! Least of all before the good captain."

Blackwell just shook his head, placing a hand on Maria's shoulder. "Now, now, my girl. You needn't worry about pirates. _Mary Rose_ is a sound and safe ship; they won't bother us."

Rather than the expected relief, however, the girl's face showed disappointment. Then, stubbornness. "How can you be certain?"

"Because," Blackwell replied, "God protects good folk like us on the sea." He gestured towards the skies with his silver-tipped cane. But Maria's expression didn't change.

"But I _want_ pirates to come! Then I will run away with them, and be a pirate queen with my own ship when I'm grown," she said. Captain Blackwell looked confused; the maid, despite her exasperated groan, didn't. Master Beineke seemed merely intrigued. He knelt down to be closer to the child's level.

"Why do you want to be a pirate queen?" he asked.

For a moment, the wide brown eyes showed surprise. It was clear no-one had asked this question before. The little girl hesitated. "Because…because pirates have adventures. Their lives are daring and exciting and they don't have to sit primly in their houses all the time."

"But pirates are men. Have you ever heard of a female pirate?" He stared at her thoughtfully. "If I may say so, Miss Maria, it seems no fit life for a lady."

"Believe me," the maid interjected, "if any lady is equal to it, you're looking at her. She's willful enough, at least." With that, she took Maria's hand and began to lead her away. "Come along, Miss."

As the child reluctantly left, looking back over her shoulder at the young man, Captain Blackwell shook his head.

"Disgraceful. What are they filling children's heads with these days? For a girl to be thinking of pirates- I ask you, Master Beineke!"

But Master Beineke was no longer listening. Instead, his gaze was fixed on something in the distance, off the port side of the ship. Blackwell looked in the same direction and felt his heart almost stop.

It was a ship, much like his. But even at a distance, he could see the flag they ran. Black, with a white hourglass over crossed bones in the center. There could be no mistaking the ship nor its occupants- nor their intentions.

"Sweet Jesus preserve us," he whispered. Then, all business once more, "Get below, Master Beineke. The deck will very shortly become no place for a gentleman such as yourself."

As the young man nodded and took his leave, Blackwell noticed- as men occasionally do in such moments –small details of the scene around him. A knot in the woodwork of the railing, for instance, or the gold ring that glinted on the poet-lad's hand. Such a strange design, he thought briefly. It was shaped like a sort of serpent or dragon.

But such thoughts were driven from his mind as one by one, the passengers on deck began to notice the pirate ship. Screams rose, and loud prayers; he had to raise his voice to be heard over the din.

"Gentlemen! Ladies! I must ask you to keep calm. If you will go below so that we may do our duties, we stand a better chance of escape. I suggest you occupy yourselves in quiet prayer for our deliverance."

With that, the deck began to clear. As Maria passed, being hurried along by her maid, he heard her say, "Do you think they'll take prisoners?"

With a sailor's superstition, he wondered if the wretched girl had brought this down on them. But reason soon drove the suspicion from his mind. As he shouted orders and his crew rushed to obey, the ship drew nearer. She was a schooner, faster and more maneuverable than the _Mary Rose._ Despite the crew's efforts, she soon caught up.

A warning shot rang out across the narrowing space between the two vessels. They would be watching, he knew, for resistance. At the first sign of aggression, the black flag would be changed for red.

Red for _no mercy._ Red for blood. Captain Blackwell had been sailing long enough to know.

"Sir?" one of the men asked. "Do we fight?"

After a moment, he replied, "No. I'll not risk the souls aboard any more than need be. We surrender."

The order was given to strike the colors, a sight he turned away to avoid seeing. But the lowering of the ship's flag was a clearly visible signal to the pirates that they would not fight. The rest was left to the enemy's doubtful capacity for mercy.

A capacity he would soon learn, as grappling hooks began flying across the gap between the ships and were followed by their owners. Large men, the majority of them; old enough to have done this many times. Several sported tattoos, a few the expected gold teeth or missing legs. The frightening thing, to Blackwell, was and always had been how similar they looked to honest men he'd commanded. Pirates could at least have the decency to _look_ like creatures out of nightmares- or even simply look different from the average sailor.

But one did look different, the last one to come aboard. A surprisingly young man, slender, dark of hair and eye but with unusually pale skin- a few shades darker than the sails above them. And despite wearing normal sailor's garb of trousers, a loose shirt, and a waistcoat, something about the way he carried himself struck Blackwell as odd.

That and the fact that the others fell back before him, parting like the Red Sea to allow him to reach the _Mary Rose_'s captain. Blackwell eyed him warily as he approached.

The young man stopped before him. One pallid hand rested on a cutlass with a jeweled hilt, but he made no move to draw it. "This is my ship," he said, "the _Diana._ And these are my men."

"Please," Blackwell interjected, "I beg mercy for the innocent souls aboard. We have twenty passengers travelling to the islands; they have no part in this. If you must kill, take me in their stead."

"I have no interest in bloodshed. My sole aim- and that of my crew –is your cargo." Without taking his eyes off the much-relieved Blackwell, the young captain continued, "If you do not impede us, we will let you sail on unharmed."

The older man breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

This garnered a raised eyebrow. "Don't thank me for what I'd be a fool to take. Killing bystanders won't fill my hold." With that, he nodded to the men behind him, who immediately dispersed.

As the pirates tramped about belowdecks, bringing up armloads of silks and spices, the passengers watched with guarded interest. True to form, Miss Maria tried once or twice to push her way towards the thieves; true to form, the harried maid pulled her back. But the raid passed without incident- until, that is, one of the women fainted.

Completely without provocation, some flimsy English rose or another collapsed. Perhaps she finally remembered what was expected of her in this situation. Either way, the frail, corseted body fell, from the front of the group, straight into the unsuspecting arms of the _Diana_'s captain.

Who stared at her, blinking in a shaft of sunlight that pierced the gloom. His expression was one of almost comical confusion.

Master Beineke quickly pushed his way towards the unconscious belle. "Here," he said, hoisting her awkwardly from the pirate's grip. "I'll take her."

"Much obliged," the young captain replied wryly. He seemed to have regained his composure; with what sounded like a small snort of derision, he started to turn back towards the stairs.

And stopped to stare intently at the would-be poet's hand. Specifically, at the small golden dragon around his finger. Beineke glanced at it, then back at the pirate.

"Sir…" he began warily, but the brigand cut him off.

"Give me your ring."

Without even pausing to think, he replied, "No."

"Yes." He found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

"Indeed, no."

"Indeed," the young man grabbed his wrist and pulled him close enough that their noses were almost touching, "yes."

"Believe me when I say," Master Beineke said quietly, "that this ring is not leaving my possession."

They stood like that for a long few moments, during which the assembled company seemed to hold its breath. Finally, the pirate spoke.

"That can be arranged."

Suddenly, something about the cold-burning brown eyes sparked in the brain of the dragon ring's wearer. He glanced at the pirate; there was no specific evidence to support his wild fancy, but somehow he felt more certain in it by the moment.

"You're a-" he began, but the pistol's handle connected with his head before he could finish the sentence, and the world was swallowed by blackness.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh look, a cliffhanger that's not really a cliffhanger.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Look! Pirates! Sorry this took so long.

* * *

His first thought, as he came to, was that it was very dark. The room around him was a dimly-lit blur, illuminated only by a few shafts of light from a small porthole. His second thought was that his head ached.

And his third thought was that the figure leaning against one curved wall, concentrating on sharpening a small knife with a handheld whetstone, was decidedly female.

Unconventional, to be sure; from the black hair that ended slightly above her shoulders to the simple shirt, breeches, and boots she wore. Unlike her garb during the raid, however, this outfit made no attempt to mask the physical qualities that marked the _Diana_'s captain as a woman.

Therefore, it was only natural that he croaked, "You're a woman."

She raised an eyebrow. "And you're more observant than anyone else I've met. I commend you, sir." Her voice, he noted, was higher in pitch than it had been during the raid; on reflection, this didn't come as a surprise.

He glanced at his surroundings. The wooden beams of the ship's deck stretched above him, creaking as the vessel gently rocked, and the door behind him was barred. _The brig, then._ And the chair he was tied to only added to his discomfort by occasionally poking splinters into his hands.

"Madam." He addressed his captor with surprising courtesy. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"By all means," she replied without looking up from her dagger. But her voice held an undertone of…amusement?

Ignoring the oddity of that undertone from a bloodthirsty pirate, he cleared his throat. "Lucas Beineke, at your service."

"Most people," the pirate said, "know me as Jeremy Charles. And I'm decidedly not at yours."

"But that's not your name," he prompted, flexing his bound hands in an effort to regain some feeling in them. She raised an eyebrow.

"No."

"Then what is?"

At last, she seemed to pay attention to him. Tossing the whetstone aside, she slowly crossed the room to stand next to her prisoner. Her brown eyes remained so fixed on him as to almost drill holes through him, but for some reason he wasn't afraid. Just as he began to wonder at his perplexing reaction to the situation, she reached the chair.

With one hand, she placed the point of the dagger at his throat. "Master Beineke. If you give me that ring, I'll let you go free. If not…" The dagger twisted just enough to draw a drop of blood. "Well. Let that speak for me."

He winced, but replied, "Then kill me. I'll not hand it over willingly."

The pressure of the dagger- vanished. Daring to breathe a sigh of relief, he gazed at his captor; she had retreated, at least for the moment. They regarded each other from opposite sides of the room for a moment.

"Wait," he said hesitantly. "The bloodthirsty pirate will suffer me to live?"

The young woman stared at him, brown eyes guarded- and sheathed her dagger.

"Blood?" she replied. "Its tang is sweet, but for thirst, rum is more efficacious."

With that, the pirate strolled over to a shelf on the port-side wall. She removed a cloudy brown bottle from the shelf and once more approached her prisoner. The dagger was unsheathed and slashed his bonds. As Lucas rubbed the raw marks on his wrists, she offered him the bottle.

"Will you drink?"

He glanced at her suspiciously. "It's poisoned."

She made no reply, only held his gaze. Then, still not looking away, she raised the bottle to her own lips and drank. A moment passed; she neither collapsed nor convulsed nor vomited. "See? Safe."

"Why the sudden hospitality?" he asked, still not convinced. The _Diana_'s captain sighed.

"Master Beineke, you are my captive. Plainly, I have no intent to kill you. Nor, indeed, is it my wish to harm you in any way. A man who's given no offense is safe from my wrath. Thus, I can but offer hospitality and hope it will cause you to see things my way."

When he still hesitated, she pressed the bottle forward again. "It will dull the pain in your hands."

Without looking away from the brunette, Lucas wrapped his hand around the dirty glass and drank.

* * *

Lucas Beineke had never had rum. Lucas Beineke, she increasingly suspected, had never even **smelled** rum. A man like him, with his fine clothing and soft skin- there was almost no way he had imbibed more than a few glasses of wine at a formal dinner. He might even be a temperance advocate, if not for his poetical leanings.

And as his hand accidentally brushed hers again, she recalled just how soft that skin was. Like the flank of a dolphin she'd once touched off the coast of La Florida. But she pushed the thought away.

"I tell you, miss," he slurred, "the man knows nothing. H'sees the world in gold an' papers. An' I'm-"

"A poet," she cut him off. "Yes, you've said several times."

Disengaging his hand, she moved to lean against a support beam with careful nonchalance. His unfocused gaze followed her.

"But I'm still curious about your ring, sir," she said, taking a small sip from her own bottle. Her third since the drinking had begun; it would not do to get as drunk as the man she was interrogating.

"You want it," he accused. One hand rose protectively to cover the golden dragon twining around a finger of the other. The young woman mentally swore.

But maintained her composure. With a small sigh, she began examining her stained and cracked fingernails. "Perhaps. For now, I would like to learn its history. It may be that the trinket is of no value to me," she said. A careless shrug accompanied the statement, and her gaze remained lowered.

The ploy worked; Lucas began to laugh. "Miss, I am certain it isn't," he chuckled. "It's gold, true enough, but you've gold aplen'y."

"I have," she conceded, allowing herself another sip of rum. "Gold, cloth, spices…cargo far beyond the value of your little ring, unless it proves exceptional in some way."

"Hah," the drunken captive continued, "not likely. I assure you, cap'n, it's of no particular prof- proov- partic'lar background."

"Indeed?" Her tone was one of practiced disinterest. She began removing some dirt from under her nails with her dagger, but glanced surreptitiously at the boy when he'd focused once more on his rum.

He wouldn't last a day among her crew, she decided. Exactly the kind of lad her mother would have liked her to marry- ornamental, romantic, thoroughly artistic. But insubstantial and naïve.

Then again, some would have once said the same thing of her…

His voice interrupted her thoughts. "You're beautiful."

A lesser woman might have spluttered. The captain's eyes widened and shot to Lucas' face. That was the only outward sign of less-than-perfect composure.

"Beg your pardon?"

"You're. Beautiful," he repeated. She raised an eyebrow.

"I assure you, I'm not," she said wryly.

He slowly nodded. "You are, miss. Cap'n. Miss cap'n. Your eyes glow sometimes. Your hair is like ebony. Or licorice. Eb'ny's more poetical; forget I said licorice. An' close to, you have some freckles, which I'm not s'posed to like but I do. Even in men's clothing, which the preachers say is a sin agains' God, you-"

"That's enough." She cut him off. Striding across the room, the pirate returned her bottle rather forcefully to the little shelf. The wood cracked, but Lucas didn't seem to notice. "Flattery won't buy your release."

"Not flattery, kiss maptain," he muttered. Then, after a moment's thought, "What's your name?"

"Not relevant to our conversation. Now," she began, "the ring."

"I'll guess."

"Please don't."

"Prudence."

"No. I-"

"Mary."

"Hardly. Master B-"

"Hannah."

"The ring, sir. Cease prattling and tell me about its past." Her patience had begun to wane.

His smile was triumphant, if lopsided. "It **is** Hannah!"

"Master Beineke," she ground out between clenched teeth. "Tell. Me. About. The. Ring." But the poet merely sat back- inasmuch as the rag that still tied his ankles allowed –and sipped his rum.

"Hannah of the _Diana_. That rhymes. P'rhaps **you're** the poet, milady."

For a moment, she was silent, staring at the planks of the ship's hull. Even in a drunken stupor, Lucas seemed to realize that he'd overstepped himself.

"Er…miss…"

"Wednesday," came the quiet reply.

He hesitated; the woman turned back towards him, but didn't raise her voice again. "My name is Wednesday Addams, if it satisfies you."

Lucas blinked. "Tha's the strangest name for a woman I've ever heard." So strange, apparently, that all he could do was pass out.

The bottle fell from his slackened hand. Wednesday tiptoed closer, examining him. Just then, the door opened, and a tall, skinny man in a red bandana quietly entered. As quietly, that is, as he could given the stout piece of wood which replaced his left leg. He approached the chair to which the young man was still tied.

"Captain? Is he…?"

Wednesday nodded. "Out cold. But we don't need his story- just this." And she gently slipped the ring off his hand.

Or tried to. For the minute her fingers touched it, the tiny gold dragon began to glow, becoming white-hot as if it had been dropped into a fire. She drew back, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth. Shaking the burned hand, she turned to her shipmate.

"Worse than I thought. He's favored. None of us can touch it," she said grimly. "Spread the word that no-one is to try, Mr. Brewer."

Once Mr. Brewer had stumped off on his wooden leg, she turned back to her prisoner. Some odd whim led her to push back loose strands of his hair- longer than her own, she noted with amusement.

"Lucas Beineke," Wednesday murmured. "What are you to Davy Jones?"

* * *

**A/N:** No, not the one with tentacles. You'll see.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Arrrr.

* * *

"Pay attention."

"Madam, how can I when my head feels as though a massive quarry was being worked inside?"

"You wanted answers, sir," Wednesday replied, leafing through a heavy book on her desk. "If you can't listen, you won't get them."

Lucas winced in the sunlight streaming through the window. The captain's cabin was, of course, far better-appointed than the brig; this luxury included a large, plate-glass window. Other details- the mahogany desk, the yellowed maps on the wall, the four-poster bed with its red velvet hangings –blurred together in the face of his splitting headache.

"Have you no medicines; nothing to make this stop?" he asked for the dozenth time.

She raised an eyebrow. "To ask my crew, there are a thousand miracle hangover remedies, and each alone is effective."

"And you?" Lucas raised his head to look at her. A tight, humorless smile preceded her response.

"I very much doubt you'd be helped by my personal hangover remedy, Master Beineke. It involves arsenic."

He blinked and gingerly shook his head. "I must have misheard. _Ars__enic_...?"

"Yes. To you, it's a deadly poison. Or so I'm told," she said, rifling through one of many piles of paper on the desk's leather surface. "Now, surely you-"

"Pardon me," he interrupted, "but is poison not deadly to you as well?"

"No." Her reply was laconic, but carried a strange undertone. Amusement? Somehow it was difficult to imagine the pirate captain being amused. But, through his blurred vision, he thought a hint of a devilish smile played about her lips.

"How can that be? Are you more than mortal somehow?" He raised a hand to rub at his eyes; the sunlight glinted off his ring. In that moment, any trace of the uncharacteristic amusement vanished.

"My family is singular," came the curt answer. "We have, as Shakespeare would say, 'a dateless bargain with engrossing death.' Now, sir, your ring."

His jaw tensed. "You'll not take it from me."

"No, indeed." Slipping a dagger between the pages of the heavy tome before her, Wednesday walked from behind the desk and leaned casually against it. Her expression as she regarded him was inscrutable. "In fact, I cannot touch it."

If she'd expected any response besides a series of rapid blinks, she was sorely disappointed. With a sigh, the young woman reached for his hand. When he attempted to pull away, he found his wrist caught in an iron grip. He watched, eyes widening, as her hand drew nearer the ring and the metal began to glow. Within an inch of the now-white gold, she pulled back.

As the ring's light dimmed, he stared at her. "I don't understand."

"You don't feel it? Not surprising." She propped one heavy boot against the desk. "That metal was white hot, at least to me."

"Do you burn? You with your…dateless bargain," he asked wryly.

"I _am_ human, Master Beineke," she said. "Being difficult to kill does not imply invulnerability."

"So if you were to be set aflame-"

"You would not be there to witness it, and that is enough speculation," she interrupted. "If you wish to know the cause of your imprisonment, be silent. Or be gagged." The last as an afterthought.

The creaking of the ship filled the now-silent room. With a small nod, Wednesday retrieved the book from her desk. The leather-bound cover, Lucas noticed, bore the title, Legendes of Walles.

Captain Addams began to pace the dark floorboards behind the desk. "How familiar are you with Davy Jones, Master Beineke?"

He shrugged. "I know only that he is a spirit who keeps dead sailors. A myth."

"No." She shook her head. "He is fact- and he is a god."

"I'm sorry, this headache; I must have heard you wrong. It sounded as if you said he was a god," Lucas groaned, rubbing at his temples. Her pacing stopped.

"No, you heard me perfectly." The strange amusement had returned. Thumbing through the book, she held it out for him to examine. A woodcut of a fierce-looking man riding a dragon through storm-tossed waves accompanied the archaic text.

"Dewi. A sea god revered by the ancient Welsh," she explained. "And rumored to have vanished when England asserted its power. Or at least, his veneration ceased, and how else can a god die?"

Reaching across the desk, she turned the page, ignoring his protestations. The next illustration depicted the same dragon coiled around a vast pile of coins. Skulls littered the rocky ground of the cave in which it lay, and it appeared to menace the reader.

"But he left behind a vast treasure, one piece of which is a talisman of matchless power."

Looking up from the page, he jumped slightly at seeing her face inches from his. The large, brown eyes were bright, almost glowing.

"And whosoever owns it…controls the sea."

For a moment, he simply gawked at her through eyes still blurred by the aftereffects of the previous night.

"So you seek an ancient god's dragon-guarded treasure."

"Yes."

"And that god is also the sailors' tale, Davy Jones."

"Yes."

"And this treasure grants you rule of the seas."

"Yes."

Silence. Out on deck, some of the crew chose that highly inopportune moment to burst into a song about women with small morals and large breasts. Finally,

"You're mad," Lucas concluded. Wednesday's eyes narrowed. Snatching the book back, she stalked behind her desk with the air of one removing her pearls before swine.

"Says the man with the magic ring," she muttered.

"It's not-"

"It was glowing!" she barked, slamming the book on the desk. "And whether you felt it or not, it burned like a brand to me. I've moved heaven and Earth searching for that trinket, and I'll not have your blind, pompous disbelief ruining my efforts!"

The emotion on her face was not the sort Lucas had been taught to associate with women. His father had referred to them as the fairer (or, when in a foul mood, weaker) sex, and held forth on their delicate constitutions. Females were incapable of strong emotion, Malcolm Beineke would declare; exertion of any kind would make them faint at best- or unable to bear children at worst.

Wednesday did not look delicate. She looked desperate, frustrated, and a bit wild. Somehow, he felt this shouldn't have intrigued him as much as it did.

"Well," he began, suddenly very aware of the ropes binding his legs to the chair, "assuming for the moment that your story is true, what use is my ring?"

In answer, she opened a smaller, newer book and slid it across the desk. The poet caught it and began reading it. On the page before him was an etching of the same golden dragon that encircled his finger.

"Legends speak of it. Most recently this book, written by a plantation owner who saw it firsthand. He claimed it had come into the hands of a merchant, but never said exactly who. And I could not find him to ask."

Flipping the book closed over his hand, Lucas frowned at the author's name. "Lucas Bennet." He looked at her. "My uncle's name, ironically. He's dead these five years; a field accident took his leg, and then his life from blood poisoning."

"It might be the same man, then." He placed the book in the waiting pallid hand; she opened it once more to the picture of the ring.

"Master Beineke, how did you come by the ring? She asked. Absently turning it on his finger, he thought for a while before deciding on honesty.

"It's my mother's. She bid me wear it always while away from home." His lips turned upward in an unconscious smile. "Said it would lead me to safety, no matter where I was."

After a moment, his captor spoke again. "Or to treasure."

Lucas looked up so sharply that his head throbbed anew, to see her regarding him with curiosity. "I beg your pardon?"

She crossed to the window. "Legend holds that the ring will lead its bearer to Davy Jones' hidden cave. And, by extension, to the talisman."

With a sigh, Lucas covered his eyes to block out the sunlight. "You can't have it," he mumbled. "My answer will never change."

A few seconds' silence left him expecting a knife in his back. Surely now, the pirate would begin living up to the reputation of her kind.

Slow footfalls behind him grew ever nearer; muttering a prayer under his breath, Lucas closed his eyes and prepared for a death-blow. Behind his chair, her tread stopped. And shortly, he felt-

-a hand stroking his hair. One eye slowly opened, then the other.

Standing over him, Wednesday was smiling in an odd way. In fact, he would almost say she was…_simpering_. But that went against not only his knowledge of pirates, but what little he knew about her. Nevertheless, her hand slowly moved to touch his cheek.

"You're quite handsome," she said quietly.

"W-what?" her captive stammered.

"You called me beautiful; I'm merely returning the compliment." As she walked around the chair to stand in front of him, her hips seemed to swing more than usual. Indeed, all of her movements had grown oddly languid, like those of someone in the late stages of illness.

"The life of a pirate is a lonely one, Master Beineke," she purred. Or at least, that seemed the most apt term for the way she was speaking. Still with the motion of an invalid, one hand began to toy with the buttons on her shirt.

"The men of my crew are hardworking and obey my orders, but…" She slowly undid the top two buttons, revealing skin beneath that was only a few shades darker than the linen of the garment itself. "They cannot satisfy certain womanly needs."

Two more buttons were undone, revealing what appeared to be bandages covering the young woman's chest. The function of these Lucas couldn't guess; they did nothing to disguise her breasts, as he knew that even with clothing on, her gender was obvious. And even more obvious now, as she leaned forward and gripped the arms of his chair.

"When I saw you during the raid, I was completely taken with you. And I believed that perhaps around you I could finally let fall this masculine façade and be myself," she whispered.

It was then, and only then, that Lucas realized he was in the middle of an attempted seduction. With a glance at the open window, he said, "Captain Addams, are you not in the least concerned about your crew?"

A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by what she probably took for a sensual pout. The result was more along the lines of a sulking duck. "Oh, Master Beineke- you disarm me utterly. I can no longer contain myself."

Turning around, she began to slip her shirt off over one shoulder. "Take me, sir. You are so virile, so courageous in the face of danger. Only you can truly dominate me as I secretly desire," she said, with a glance back at him.

"But…" He cast about for a way to change this turn of events. "I'm tied to this chair."

Quick as a fox, she knelt down and untied the ropes that held him in place. And as she rose, she never took her eyes from his.

"Shall we retire to bed, handsome sir?" she said in a voice that, once again, utterly failed to sound coquettish. "I will do whatever you desire."

Lucas stood and looked at her. With her shirt open to the waist, she looked almost vulnerable for once. It would be difficult for any man to deny certain urges. But despite her words, there was something wrong with her expression. It was not one of lust or desire, but of determination. And something about her eyes belied what she was doing.

"No."

Wednesday frowned. "No?" Any attempt at seductiveness had fled from her voice. Lucas wondered at the sudden relief he felt.

"You don't want to do this," he said. "Pity's sake, you only just met me. Madam, you hardly seem the type to invite a near-stranger to her bed."

For a long while, they stared at each other without speaking. Then, she quickly began to button her shirt once more.

"Thank you," she said, and he could tell the sentiment was genuine.

"Please, do not thank me," he replied. "It's not me you want, but my ring."

She nodded, her eyes on him still calculating. "I do not merely want it. I _need_ it."

"And I will not let it out of my sight. So it seems we are at an impasse, unless…"

Her fingers paused on the buttons. "You had your chance to bed me, sir. There will not be another," she said.

"No," he replied quickly. With a sigh, Lucas sat down on the bed behind him. "Though I can't believe the words are leaving my mouth, I will stay here and accompany you on your quest. Then you will have the ring, and it still will not leave my sight. Have we an accord?"

Another calculating look as she tucked her shirt back into her breeches. Then, she extended a hand to him; he hesitantly shook it.

Wednesday turned to leave- and stopped. "You know," she said pensively, "most men would have been on me within five minutes. Even with my…obvious shortcomings."

He didn't move. "I am not most men."

"No, you aren't." If he hadn't known better, he could have sworn a tiny laugh escaped her lips. "It seems I underestimated you, Master Beineke."

"Please," he said on a whim, "Lucas."

There was a pause. Then,

"As you wish, _Lucas._"

* * *

**A/N:** First-name basis inside two days. That would have been unheard of in polite 1721 society. Good thing we're on a pirate ship, then.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** This is probably the longest chapter so far, and pushes the T rating at the end. Enjoy.

* * *

"Writing in a book, sir, is hardly a greater crime than piracy."

Shaking his head, Lucas thumbed through the small book. Its cracked leather binding and worn, yellowed pages bespoke many readings, over many years. But as he flipped pages, the young man winced.

"Look!" Thrusting out a page for examination; the margins were full of untidy script, some words underlined multiple times. "Paragraphs, marring the page, distracting the reader from the text!"

"You," he concluded, closing the book and brandishing it at her, "are truly a villain…ness." The last was an afterthought, eliciting a small, grudging smile from Wednesday.

"Yes," she said wryly. "The foulest monster to ever roam the seas. I steal ships and property from innocent merchants by underhanded means, wear the garb of the opposite sex- and write in my copy of _Hamlet_."

"Not just_ Hamlet_." Lucas stood and walked behind the desk to stand before the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. As he ran a hand along the leather spines, his captor surreptitiously watched him.

To say that she wouldn't have known him for the man she kidnapped three months ago would have been a dramatic overstatement. He was still a poet, still inquisitive and intelligent- and still given to fits of sudden propriety, still often underfoot and an object of derision amongst her crew.

And yet…

Small changes were obvious when she looked at him. Physically, his skin was a bit darker; his hair a bit lighter from the sun. And other changes, mental changes, invisible to the eye.

The eye, however, still did not go wanting. She shot an appreciative glance a the breeches, tightened by salt spray, that hugged his legs and rear end. Her gaze lingered on the latter for a long minute. Until, that is, her view was marred by the young man suddenly turning around.

Too suddenly for her to pretend she hadn't been looking.

Lucas face split into a sly grin. "See something you like?" he asked, returning a dog-eared copy of The Canterbury Tales to the shelf and slowly walking towards her. Wednesday shook herself slightly and looked at the floor.

"No. You flatter yourself," she said in a tone of utter dismissal. But a glance at Lucas' expression proved that he was unconvinced.

And thus had been their interactions for longer than she cared to admit. The first month or so had been easy; they'd settled into a friendship which, while unconventional in its beginnings, was entirely proper. And, if she was being honest with herself, it was a welcome change from solitude. Lively discussions of books, debates on the merits of the treasure they sought, casual conversations wherein he managed to make her laugh. For a time, it had been innocent and platonic.

Then the discussions had gotten **too** lively, the debates more like mutual plans, the casual conversations peppered with lingering looks full of unspoken feeling.

And, of course, there was the fact that she couldn't stop staring at his damned behind. Then again, there were nights when she thought she caught him staring, too- usually she wrote it off as a trick of the lamplight, but oil lamps could only play tricks on one's vision so many times…

"You were staring," His voice in reality jolted her out of her thoughts. Standing by the window, he was looking back at her in amusement. The young captain straightened some papers on her desk, trying to appear as businesslike as possible.

"Hardly."

"Yes, you were."

"Staring into space, perhaps."

"Not at all," he said. Slowly, he turned from the window and approached the desk. Wednesday kept her eyes on the leather surface, peeling away in places from the brass tacks that held it to the wood. It wouldn't do to get distracted, not now. She'd already let things go too far.

"Or if you were, a very specific point in space." The still-amused voice was closer now; she threw caution to the winds and glanced up.

Close was an understatement. Lucas' face was inches from hers above the desktop. For a moment, they looked into each other's eyes, and she heard his breath grow a bit shallower, a bit faster. In a valiant burst of will, she convinced herself that her own pulse hadn't sped up.

"Funny," Lucas said quietly. When she raised an eyebrow, he continued, "That's the first time I've seen color in your cheeks."

"Only because you've never seen me in a fight," she replied.

"I wish I could."

It was an unexpected reply, which may have been why her ire suddenly rose. "Why?" she shot back, retreating to the bookshelf and slamming a volume back into place with more force than was strictly necessary. "I thought you held a negative opinion of women who ranged beyond their domestic spheres."

To her satisfaction, the young man seemed taken aback. "M-madam," he stammered, backing away from the desk and towards the window once more, "my extended presence here should prove otherwise."

"Your presence here," she said, "proves nothing but that I need your ring and you refused to give it up." Another book slid home with a satisfying _thunk._

"What I meant was my presence _here_." He gestured vaguely at the cabin around them. "I thought our conversations these past months would have given you a better measure of my character."

"Your character," came the tart reply, "is none of my concern. Your ring is."

Lucas sighed and turned away from the window once more. "Wednesday-"

The door burst open; Wednesday hoped she successfully stifled the involuntary sigh of relief that threatened to burst out of her. A girl of about sixteen, with deep brown skin and oddly pale eyes, practically ran into the room- but stumbled to a halt when she noticed Lucas' presence.

"Captain," she began, not taking her eyes off him, "we're…we're…what is he doing here?" The impatience in her tone appeared to startle Lucas, who jumped slightly. Wednesday, on the other hand, seemed to be trying not to smile.

"Calm down, Helena. Is he likely to do me harm?" The question seemed rhetorical, but the girl straightened her worn cotton shirt and said, "Let me see." With that, her eyes seemed to glaze over and she went completely still.

For several moments, the room was silent. Lucas glanced from Wednesday to Helena, but couldn't discern what was going on. The scene had the air of some arcane ritual, and he the lone interloper in the proceedings. At last, with a shake, the younger girl seemed to come back to herself.

"No," she said. To his surprise, her lips turned up in a wide smile. "Not at all. In fact, quite the opposite." And then, shocking the poet still further, she giggled.

"I'll just leave you two alone, then." And with that, she began to back out of the room; Wednesday hurried forward and stopped her.

"Wait, Helena," she said. The teenager stopped, looking as impatient as she had when she'd entered, but with a difference that Lucas was at a loss to explain. She drummed her fingers against the doorframe.

"Yes, Captain?"

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. "What did you come in here for in the first place?"

"Oh, yes," the other woman said. "We're here." And with that, she practically ran from the room. Lucas glanced at the captain, shaking his head.

"What was that about?" he asked. Wednesday smirked.

"That," she said, wandering to the front of the desk and leaning back against it, "was your cue to leave."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Leave." She began pushing him towards the door. "Unless you want to see more of me than I'm willing to let you see."

But Lucas wouldn't be deterred that easily. The young man dug his heels in and moved as slowly as possible despite the pirate's iron grip and surprising strength. "I'm not leaving without answers. What is going on?"

She sighed. "You are leaving, I am putting on finer clothing, and we are going ashore."

"Ashore?"

"If I wanted to hear my words repeated, I'd get a parrot." But he could have sworn she'd laughed. As he was finally propelled out the door and heard it slam behind him, she called, "You'll find plenty of poetic inspiration in Temperance."

* * *

Temperance did not live up to its name.

In fact, it seemed to Lucas at times that the streets of the port city ran with spirits. At least, it certainly smelled that way. And half the people stumbling across the cobblestones at any given time were drunk, clutching bottles or even wineglasses in their hands. The scent of rum and whiskey at least managed to mask the odors from chamber pots that were regularly upended out of windows above the street- most of the time. Still, the town was a hive of activity, inns and houses blazing with a thousand torches. The fact that most of the activity was of dubious legality, let alone morality, didn't seem to bother most of its inhabitants.

Certainly the woman at his side was unfazed. He glanced at her once more, still unable to believe her transformation.

When he'd first seen her like that, on the deck of the ship, his breath had caught in his throat. In the black satin gown, just barely too old-fashioned to be fashionable, with a black pearl collar around her neck and garnet earrings, she'd seemed like an entirely different creature.

And then the familiar smirk had been leveled at him. "Contrary to popular belief, Lucas, I _am_ a woman. Try not to let the shock kill you."

Now she walked beside him, strolling as if down a street in one of London's finest neighborhoods. Wednesday looked just as comfortable in female clothing as male, a fact Lucas marveled at. What's more, no-one seemed to bat an eye at her unusual appearance.

"Explain to me again why this place is called Temperance?" he asked as a woman wearing a lot of rouge, a low-cut dress, and a flirtatious smile beckoned to him from a doorway. The pirate's voice, when she spoke, had that tone of superior amusement.

"Wishful thinking on the part of the town fathers." She began looking at the tavern signs more closely. "They wanted this place to be a beacon of Christian morality. A city on a hill, one of them is meant to have said."

"But, god almighty, have you seen what's happened since?" One of the many heavily-painted women lounging on doorsteps and around taverns detached herself from her stoop and sauntered over. With a coy smile, she reached out to stroke Wednesday's hair.

"Hello, love," she purred. "It's been too long."

"Virginia," Wednesday said with surprising warmth. She took the prostitute's hand in her own. "How are you?"

"Oh, still alive, which is more than most can say," Virginia replied. Then, her brilliant-red lower lip shifted outwards into a pout. With one finger, she traced a path slowly down the other woman's neck, to the softer skin at the neckline of her dress. Lucas reddened slightly as that finger hooked into Wednesday's bodice, between her breasts.

"Pretty raven, why have you stayed away from me?" she said with mock dismay. "You know I love your visits. And you know how I can make you feel…"

An audible gasp from Lucas caused both women to look sharply in his direction. When he spluttered and looked away, Virginia rolled her eyes. Dropping a kiss on Wednesday's hand, she marched over to the young poet.

"Listen, mate," she said, "you've clearly been living under a rock most of your life. Well, that's fine. Half the world has, and all of the pampered dandies like you. But don't bring your preaching here; the good people of Temperance aren't of a mind to care as long as folks don't make trouble and pay what's due from them in proper time."

With that, the blonde turned on her heel and went back to Wednesday, snaking one arm around the pirate captain's waist. "Now, if it please Your Grace, I'm off to lick this lady's madge until she screams the house down. _Bonne nuit_." And dropping a cheeky curtsey, she began to lead Wednesday away.

Only to be surprised when the other woman gently broke her grip. "Not tonight, Virginia."

"Not…" the prostitute trailed off, glancing between Wednesday and Lucas. Her shock slowly turned into an even smugger, more satisfied smile than before. Her posture changed; she slipped her arm through Wednesday's in a comradely manner.

"Come on, ducks," she said, and her tone was no longer one of seduction. "The night is young, and something tells me it's this boy's first time in our fair city."

Without further ado, she led them both into what looked like the largest, noisiest establishment on the street. Lucas barely caught a glimpse of the weathered sign swinging over the entrance as he was propelled inside, proclaiming the tavern to be called the Crowned Boar.

Inside, the large, well-lit room was even louder than it had seemed from the street. The press of unwashed bodies added a musky smell to the ever-present scent of alcohol. He recognized a few men from the _Diana_'s crew at the bar or in the company of curvaceous women. And even, looking out of place in deep conversation with a barmaid, Helena.

Virginia propelled him to a table, sat him down, and wandered off, presumably in search of a more willing…woman? Man? Nothing about the world seemed certain anymore.

As the group of rather large, hairy men at the next table struck up a loud song about a merchant's daughter, Wednesday returned with drinks. She set one down in front of Lucas, who examined it suspiciously.

"Ale," she said loudly over the noise of the crowd. "And I swear on Eris' golden apples I haven't poisoned it."

"An odd thing to swear by," he answered. But he took a hesitant sip from his tankard. Glancing around, he found himself staring at Helena again. The wiry girl was laughing, one hand laid over the barmaid's in a friendly gesture. Wednesday noticed his interest.

"She's spoken for, if that's what you're thinking."

He shook his head. "No. I was just thinking that she must owe you a great debt."

Though his tone was pleasant, almost fond, his companion's eyes narrowed. She sipped her drink and gave what might have been a snort. "Helena? Hardly. If anything, it is I who owe her- my life, my ship, and all I have."

At his inquisitive look, she continued. "We were anchored near a fort. Too near, but I was less experienced then. Helena came to me one night and warned me that the Navy was planning to seize the ship. She has the gift of prophecy, and said that in exchange for the warning, we must take her with us. No more of her past do I know, and I've never asked."

For a moment, she sipped her drink and watched the two younger women at the bar. Finally, she spoke again. "That's her lover, to the best of my knowledge. Scarlett. Why she loves coming here so much."

Lucas stared at her in disbelief. "Are there any women here who _don't_ seek…solace in other women's beds?" he said incredulously.

If the answering glare had been a dagger, it would have cut him through. "Your present company is included in that number, sir; mind your words. But if you must know, most of them- us –simply don't care about the gender of our paramours."

"Some might call that scandalous." But there was no outrage in his tone; he even laughed a bit. Wednesday relaxed.

Unfortunately, a large and hairy set of shoulders at the next table tensed instead. Draining the last of his drink, the hulking man threw the tankard onto the table where it knocked over several others that were also empty. He laid a massive hand on Lucas' shoulder.

"Think the way we do things around here is funny, lad?"

"Not at all," the young man replied. "I was just talking…to…" His voice trailed off as he noticed that Wednesday was nowhere to be seen. He swallowed hard.

"That is, it was only a joke-"

"A joke?" the offended party roared. "A joke?! A joke, our way of life? Our pride 'n respect for the entire…you bastard!"

And then, the smooth sound of steel on leather as he drew his sword. "Draw, boy," he said in a voice more like a growl. "Give me satisfaction."

He should have run. He should have gone to find Wednesday and gotten out of the tavern as quickly as possible. But some voice in his head, one that had grown louder over the months at sea, said to stay put. So, with confidence and even a bit of excitement, he drew the sword that the _Diana_'s captain had insisted he wear while in port. And the fight began.

It took only three minutes for Lucas to begin cursing that voice in his head. The challenger may have been drunk and likely not possessed of great intellect, but he moved like lightning. All the young man could do was parry his blows at the last minute and pray.

And it became apparent that the huge man was fond of toying with his prey. He darted around Lucas with a speed that belied his bulk, feinting and cutting small tears in the latter's clothes. When he began landing actual nicks on Lucas' skin, however, the poet really began to worry.

Finally, in a movement of the wrist too fast for Lucas' eye to follow, the sword was whisked from his hand. A boot connected with his chest, forcing him to the dirty plank floor, and the point of his enemy's sword quivered at his throat.

"This mewling pup," the victor shouted, "this wretched worm comes in here an' spits on the leg'cy of this town. No more, says I! Good people of Temperance, will we stand for it?"

"Sit down, y' old drunk!" This from one of the _Diana'_s crew, but Large and Hairy paid no heed.

"No, we won't." With that, he raised the sword to strike a death-blow-

-only to fall backwards, unconscious. Lucas looked up to see Wednesday standing on a chair behind the fallen giant, a full bottle clutched in her hand.

She shrugged. "Skulls are softer than bottles." As Lucas struggled to his feet, her eyes widened and she bit her lip as if stifling laughter.

"What?"

"Nothing. I believe we've had enough excitement for one evening." She took him by the hand and began to lead him toward the door. As they walked, several of the patrons called out apologies.

"Sorry, lad."

"Big Tavish gets like that after a few, you know."

"Landlord's ordered him out any number of times."

Virginia met them at the door. She pressed a kiss to Wednesday's cheek and did the same to Lucas.

"I'm sorry, love," she said. "And such a shame about your hair, too. It does grow back, though, I suppose."

Lucas blinked. "What about my…?" Reaching around to the back of his head, he felt only uneven ends where his long, wavy tail usually was. His face began to turn an interesting shade of red.

"That cur!" And Wednesday had to physically restrain him from going back into the Crowned Boar. Virginia patted his cheek sympathetically.

As they headed back towards the docks and the ship, the prostitute called, "She likes it rough, pretty boy!"

"Virginia!" And Lucas saw color in Wednesday's cheeks for the second time.

* * *

"I should have killed him."

"Sit still."

Back in the captain's cabin Lucas sat fuming on a three-legged stool. Wednesday had been working on his hair with a small knife for about an hour- once she'd managed to get him to cooperate. Despite having calmed down somewhat, he was still muttering darkly under his breath.

"If you'd killed him, the landlord would have beaten you within an inch of your life," she continued.

"But he-"

"He what?" she interrupted with a snort. "He savagely deprived you of your hair? Big Tavish talks a good game; he wouldn't have killed you."

Lucas twisted around on the stool, forcing her to pull her knife hand back quickly or risk cutting his face. "It was humiliating!"

She rolled her eyes and forced him to face the other way again. "No-one in that tavern took you for a fighter. And I promise you, worse insults have been offered on the premises." A few seconds later, she set the knife down on the table and added, "Done."

Lucas stood and wandered over to the mirror hanging on the wall above the chipped washbasin. And went white-faced upon seeing his reflection.

"What…what did you do?!"

From her usual lounging pose against the desk behind him, Wednesday calmly said, "Evened out your hair." The young man swore he could hear the smirk in her voice. He turned to see her examining her nails a bit too calmly.

"There's barely any left!" he almost wailed. "I look like-"

"Marc Antony," she interjected.

"What?!"

"Or a Greek hero. Orpheus, if you like."

"I don't have a wig, you know!"

"Perhaps even Apollo." There was a definite playfulness in her tone now, unexpected but not, he found, unpleasant. "Use that poetic imagination, sir."

He reached her and planted his hands on the desktop, on either side of her hips. "Do you know what I think, madam?" he asked, matching her formality. Something sparked in her eyes.

"What?"

"I think," Lucas continued, "that you were jealous because I had longer hair than you."

Wednesday shot him a dubious look. "As if I care about that."

"And to that I say," he went on as if she hadn't spoken, "if you chose to leave feminine graces behind, you cannot take it out on others." Though his tone was pompous, there was an air of mischief to it.

Wednesday stared at him, and for a minute he feared he'd really offended her. Then, she shrugged. "I've never heard any complaints. In fact, I believe there was one young man who said after several drinks that I was beautiful- unfeminine hair and all."

"You are," he said. And as she reached out to touch his cheek, "You are beautiful- and clever. And witty. And completely mad."

The kiss, when it came, was something expected. It was the fire finally catching, and _Bloody hell, at last_. Their lips moved against each other, deep and warm and insistent. Her hands moved around his waist, up his back, nails digging in and pulling him closer. As his began to slide beneath her shirt, they broke apart for air. Wednesday glanced at the four-poster bed.

"I believe we should take this somewhere more comfortable," she whispered. "As appealing as the idea of you taking me with the desk scraping my back is- and believe me, that was not sarcasm –it might be less pleasant for you."

Lucas chose to ignore the first part of that statement and allowed her to lead him to the bed; she stole tiny kisses along the way, occasionally biting his lip in the process. Then, she slowly pressed him into the mattress.

"Wednes-"

"Shhh." She placed a finger on his lips and began to unbutton her shirt. This time, the tantalizingly slow process and the heated glances were very obviously real. Once it had been removed, she leaned over and started on his.

"Let me." Together, they made short work of the buttons. Wednesday ran a hand over the bare expanse of his chest, then leaned down to kiss his collarbone, licking the skin and worrying it with her teeth. A sharp intake of breath from the man beneath her made her smile against him.

"Have you ever done this before?"

"No. But that doesn't mean I don't want to."

Pushing him back further onto the bed, she straddled him and began undoing his trousers. "Then let me teach you. "And with that, she blew out the lamp, leaving the cabin lit only by the full moon outside.

* * *

**A/N:** Giant chapter is giant. Don't expect this to be a regular thing in the future; I just had a lot to fit in this time around.

"Madge" is 18th-century slang for female genitalia.


End file.
